Page 133 of Puck Princess

Owen’s jaw flexes. He runs a calloused thumb over my knuckles. “How do you feel now?”

“Better. Lighter,” I admit. “As soon as I finished, I felt… free. For the first time since everything happened, Spencer Santos has no power over me. I took my story back, and now I’m going to use it to make sure he can’t do this to anyone else. I feel… incredible.”

“You are incredible.” Owen cups my face with one hand, tilting my chin so he can kiss my other cheek. “You are the most incredible woman I know, and I’m so proud of you for coming forward.”

I trace his face with my eyes.

God, I love him.

He didn’t have to forgive me for keeping Spencer’s identity a secret the way he did. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d been angry. If he’d decided not to trust me ever again. But Owen has a softer heart than he lets on. He forgave me when he didn’t have to, and he trusts me with his heart. Taking care of it is the honor of my life.

I lean forward and kiss him. Instantly, his hand tightens on my jawline. He tips my head back, taking the kiss deeper. His tongue parts my lips, and we both moan.

“Closet?” he mumbles against my mouth. I can feel his smirk.

“Bedroom.”

“But the closet was so fun last time. It was dirty.”

“And now the closet is full of newborn toys and diapers,” I remind him. “Whereas, our bed is clean and soft, ready for a twenty-two week pregnant woman to be fucked senseless on it.”

He growls against my throat as he lifts me into his arms. “Okay, you make that sound pretty dirty, too. Tell me you love me.”

I suck on his earlobe and whisper, “I love you.”

“Filthy,” he groans. He places me on the end of our bed and hooks his hands in the waistband of my pants, peeling them down. “Tell me you’re mine.”

I lift my hips, helping him undress me. “I’m yours.”

His eyes are all black now, trailing up my bare legs. “Absolutely indecent.”

“Owen.” I lift myself up on one elbow and reach for him. I cup the bulge in his pants, loving the way he swallows as I stroke him. “Please fuck me.”

He grins and strokes a finger over my bottom lip, sending my heart into a flurry. “Even good manners are naughty with that mouth.”

Owen shucks his pants down and works his hands up my thighs. He spreads my legs, making room for himself, but the secondhis mouth touches my skin, there’s nothing raunchy about any of this.

He makes love to me. With his hands on my breasts and his lips between my legs and pressed against mine. With the careful way he explores my body, worshiping every bit of me until I have no choice but to love it all too.

The light warms the room and we have nothing to hide from. It’s just his skin, my skin, everything in the open. We explore each other like a backroad on a Sunday afternoon, no rush, nowhere to be, no attention paid to the existence of anything else in the world.

He slides a hand between my legs, slipping two fingers into me. With slow, purposeful strokes, he brings me to the edge, and I do the same for him. I love the feel of him in my hand, strong and smooth, reactive to even the slightest touch. I also love the way I can change his breathing. He inhales deeply, his stomach tensing with each stroke.

He’s on the verge of falling apart when he slides me to the edge of the bed and slips himself inside of me, and we connect. It’s not just our bodies, but something deeper than that. Our desires, our dreams, our fears and insecurities—even our demons—seem to lace fingers as we push and pull like a slow and easy tide.

When I come, silent tears of love and gratitude are streaming down my cheeks. Owen kisses them away, falling to his side and pulling me against him.

“I got you,” he whispers gruffly as he plants a kiss on my forehead. “No matter what, I always got you.”

And I know it’s true.

44

OWEN

“Aren’t there people we can pay to do this?” Lance asks dryly as he ties off a balloon. Or attempts to, anyway. Every balloon he’s touched has either popped or squealed around Coach Coleman’s backyard, deflating before Lance could get it in a secure knot.

“Why would I pay someone when I can just make you do it?” Kennedy is standing on a step stool, hanging streamers from a golden arch.

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